


Blurred Line Around Family Ties

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fuck You Jeff Davis, Gen, Sheriff and Allison become bros, background Scott/Allison, season 3 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stuff happens. Things." -ordinaryink</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blurred Line Around Family Ties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ordinaryink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryink/gifts).



> For ordinaryink's birthday, which was lo many weeks ago. She requested something where the Sheriff and Allison bond, with implications towards future deputy!Allison. I provided. Violence warning is for the death of an unnamed OC.

"Are you sure you have to go?" Allison stood against the wall in her father's bedroom, arms crossed over her stomach as she watched him pack a duffle bag. She'd offered to help, but he'd just said he was packing light. And he was: the bag was mostly full of weapons and a couple of books, and he was just stacking his clothes on top. "Things have been quiet. Maybe it's over." 

"I don't think any of us want to take that chance." Chris folded the sleeves of a shirt inward, then started rolling it up into a neat little tube to tuck down in with the others. "The Nematon's too dangerous to leave active, and Jan's the only person in the country who might know how to close it down."

Allison grimaced and shrugged, looking away. Part of her was still twisted around the hollow place where her mom had been, poking at it, worried she would lose someone else and it would grow. Her dad was just going to Wisconsin. Nothing ever happened in Wisconsin. Except... "Are you sure she'll want to see you? You said she was missing for three years. What if she doesn't want to be found?"

He shoved a last few things in. The duffle zipped with a loud, harsh scrape. It was barely full—there was a hollow spot at the top where the canvas sagged. "Jan does that. Which is why I need to catch her now, before she goes underground again." 

That was the opposite of reassuring. Someone who vanished from the grid regularly probably wished they could just stay off it. 

When he turned, he must have read her thoughts in her face. His shoulders slumped. "Allison, I'll be fine." Reaching out, he pulled her in against him, squashing her folded arms between their chests. When she squirmed, he just held on tighter, not letting go until she gave in and sagged forward.

"I know." No she didn't, but sometimes if she lied hard enough she could manage to lie to herself. "Anyway, it'll only be a couple of weeks, right?"

"Right. And the sheriff said you're welcome to stay as long as you need to." 

That was _another_ thing to hate about this. Allison made a face and pulled away. "Dad, I'm nearly nineteen."

"And last year I _nearly_ lost you three different times. Humor me." He squeezed her shoulders, pressing her down like he could pin her in place and keep her safe. The Saturday afternoon sunlight streaming through the window made the crags of his wrinkles look deeper, shined a little extra on gray hairs hidden in the blond. Some of them were her fault. Okay, half of them. The other half were mostly Scott's. Maybe a couple were from the rest of her friends, but Allison could pinpoint the day her dad started looking old by the day she first brought Scott home.

"Fine." She heaved a sigh and dropped her forehead against his chest. A third argument about it wasn't going to help. Even if she really wanted to push the issue. "But you're going to bring me back a souvenir." Rolling her head, she glanced up at him from the corner of her eye. "Right?"

Her dad laughed the best kind of laugh and pulled her into another hug. "I'll find something."

* * *

"And this is the guest bedroom." The Sheriff opened up a door at the end of the upstairs hallway. "I hope it'll do. We haven't had anyone but Scott stay over in a long time, and he usually stays in Stiles' room."

Allison took a step in in, her small bag of necessities clutched to her chest. Inside was clean in that bright, never-touched way that guest bedrooms have, and it reeked of too much air freshener. The bed had been made with a suspiciously new-looking quilt and matching dust ruffle in a subdued lavender color that the Stilinski house probably hadn't seen for a decade. On the desk someone had even set a vase of flowers that looked a lot like the ones out in front of the neighbor's patio. 

"Thank you, Mr. Stilinski. It's perfect." With delicate precision, Allison set her bag down on the foot of the bed and turned. The wooden floorboard actually squeaked underfoot, they were so clean. "I really appreciate you letting me stay."

"Call me Ray." He looked away uncomfortably, arms crossed over his uniformed chest, face starting to turn red from the neck up. "We emptied one of the cabinets in the bathroom for... you know. Your stuff." The floor creaked a little as he shifted his weight. "In case you need it."

It was probably wrong to snicker, but Allison couldn't help a little one. She was tempted to ask if he meant her tampons just to see if he'd blush more, but instead she just said, "Thank you," as gently as possible. Her dad had already been used to that sort of thing before she was born, thanks to her mom and Kate. Bachelorhood was clearly a firm part of the Stilinski household. 

Down on the first floor, a door slammed so hard that the pictures on the stairwell wall rattled. " _Mr. Stilinski we're home!_ " carried up at an ear-splitting volume, followed by, " _Dad is Allison here yet? Her car's out front!_ "

A second later, there were a series of thuds and thumps, and then the sound of an army beating feet up the stairs as Stiles and Scott apparently had to wrestle for the chance to reach the landing first. They hit the top simultaneously and proceeded to trip over each other until, by what could only be a miracle, they were able to fight their way upright. 

The Sheriff—she would never be able to think of him as _Ray_ —closed his eyes and sighed. "Yes, she's here. Which Scott, at least, should have known."

Scott shrugged. "Everything smells like cleaning stuff." He stared at her, all big eyes and _dimples_. "Do you like it? We worked on it all yesterday."

Her heart twisted in her chest, the way it always did around Scott and his smiles. No matter how broken up they were, he always managed to get to her. Allison forced herself not to smile too wide and glanced back at the bed, with its perfectly creased sheets and matching quilt-sham-ruffle set. "It's great. Thanks."

Stiles stood just behind Scott's shoulder, a little too bright-eyed and sharp for her peace of mind. His fingers curled around the top strap of Scott's battered old backpack, like they were kindergarteners buddying up on a field trip. "Since my dad's got a shift tonight, we were just going to go get dinner," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Do you want to—"

Her back had barely started to stiffen when the Sheriff put his hands on the boys' shoulders. "I think Allison would rather settle in for the night," he said gently, glancing up at her. "Right, Allison?" 

She threw the Sheriff a grateful smile. "Maybe next time? It's been a really long day." Pointedly, she dropped down onto the bed and stretched out. The comforter felt new, slightly too started and perfect. It had clearly been washed though; it smelled like flowers instead of plastic. "Maybe I'll go to bed early."

Scott made a disappointed face, but nodded and shuffled back. "I guess we'll see you in the morning. We'll leave you something in the fridge if you want it." He and Stiles slipped out of the room like they would have barricaded themselves in if they could have. 

Stiles' dad waited until the front door closed before speaking. "Scott being around won't be a problem, will it?" He peered at her, lines of worry creasing his forehead. "I can have his mom keep him busy." 

Allison flushed and sat up, bracing herself on her palms. "No, no. It's fine. We're just on another break." When he didn't look convinced, she smiled. "I promise, I'll be fine."

* * *

Scott stayed at the Stilinski house _all weekend_. He didn't bother her. He just _existed_ , which was worse. If he'd hovered, or tried to talk to her, or pushed into her space, she could have gotten mad. Instead it just hurt. 

College was less than a year away, and their chances of going to the same one weren't good. Long distance relationships were hell. Everyone said that. She needed time curl up around the changes that were coming and to brace herself for them. There was no way to do that when she couldn't go an hour without being reminded of how hard it was to _not_ to date Scott. 

Around three o'clock on Sunday, Allison took her car and went on a long jog in the woods around the old Hale place. It was chilly, but the trees cut the wind enough to keep it from being too bad. And the woods were peaceful. There were bad memories there, but they didn't hound her the way they did other places. She didn't look at them and see the fights and the blood and the deaths. Not the same way she saw her mom's face in the mirror, or the kanima in the shadows, or the arrows in Boyd when she closed her eyes. 

It was still early enough that she saw the remains of some campsites. Mostly they weren't much, just a little bit of litter and a ring of stones for a fire. One had obviously been used for hunting—wild animal hunting, not werewolves—by the mess they'd left behind, and she made a note of it to tell the Sheriff. The preserve was supposed to be off limits to game hunters, and the last thing they needed was someone noticing evidence of werewolves while they were tracking deer. 

Allison ran until her skin was slick with sweat and the sun had started to set behind the eponymous hills of Beacon Hills. Stars were just starting to become visible overhead as she parked in the empty spot where Stiles' Jeep usually sat. She stayed there, staring at the empty concrete for a few minutes and taking in the last bit of silence. Once her head was clear, she pocketed her keys and went in. 

"Dinner's on the counter. I made the boys leave you some." Stiles' dad was on the couch with a store-bought veggie tray and a baseball game. He tilted his head back to look at her as she walked in, eyes squinted slightly in contemplation. "Long jog. You want me to talk to Melissa?" 

Shaking her head, Allison slipped off her shoes and trotted past into the kitchen. "No I'm fine! Just wanted some air."

She was already in the kitchen, but she thought she heard him say, "Of course you did." As long as she didn't actually hear it, though, she didn't need to respond. So she didn't. 

Dinner was baked chicken, peas and some sort of broccoli salad. All of it came pre-made from a grocery store deli. It was probably loaded with more salt and sugar than a bag of chocolate-covered potato chips.

For a long second, she stared blankly, trying to make sense of the meal with Stiles' whining about his dad's health. There was nothing for it, though. She didn't want to be rude. "Just a couple of weeks, Allison," she muttered to herself, reaching for the salad as the least objectionable option.

* * *

The funny thing about mail was that you didn't realize how much of it you got until you let it pile up for a few days. 

Allison sat cross-legged at the kitchen table on Monday morning before school, sorting the bag of envelopes she'd collected from her house before leaving. Predawn sunlight streamed pink-gold through the window. Upstairs, Stiles—and Scott—were still sleeping, or at least hadn't opened the door or made boy noises, which was close enough to sleeping. She would have been asleep too, but she was too restless. It was a strange house, with weird sounds and wrong-smelling detergent and just enough difference in airflow that once she'd woken up, that was it. 

She'd meant to get to the mail backlog sooner, but between her dad packing and the way Beacon Hills never seemed to slow down, it just hadn't happened. Morning before school seemed to be as good a time as any, since she was up anyway. The stack of junk had already toppled over into a messy fan across the table top. Most of it was catalogs addressed to her mom. No matter how many "unsubscribe us" letters she and her dad had written, they never seemed to stop coming. 

Behind her, Stiles' dad shuffled in through the entryway, making noises that were close to _good morning_. It ended on a rising note, questioning. Taking a guess, Allison lifted a hand and pointed toward the coffee pot. She didn't drink it, but she'd started it when she woke up anyway, since someone had taken the time to pre-set it. The Sheriff grunted and shuffled that way, leaving her to her work. 

She'd just gotten around to the pile of _needs to be opened ASAP_ when the chair across from her scraped against the tile floor. The Sheriff sat down, cradling a cup of coffee like it was the holy grail. "Up early?" he asked, actually comprehensible. Allison had to give him points for that. 

"Couldn't sleep. Just thought I'd catch up." She unfolded a letter and sipped her tea as she skimmed through it for anything actually important. Wrinkling her nose, she tossed it over into the discard pile, casually enough that she hoped the Sheriff wouldn't notice.

Hope was in vain. "Hey, wait, I know that envelope." Reaching out, the Sheriff snagged the discarded letter. He didn't actually open the letter, but he did hold up the envelope accusingly, flashing the logo on the front at her across the table. "Columbia?" 

"It's nothing." Allison shrugged and ripped open the next envelope in line, nearly shredding it before she got to the paper inside. It looked like a bill, but it wasn't any company she knew, which meant it was probably actually an advertisement. "My dad did it."

"It's a good school." The envelope tapped against the side of the Sheriff's coffee cup as he stared at her. "Stiles is looking at staying in-state, though."

"I know." She set her jaw and focused hard on reading the pseudo-bill, in case it was hiding anything important. 

"Scott, too."

"Mmhm." 

He sipped his coffee and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "Is this about—"

"It's _not_ about Scott," Allison snapped, slamming the letter down into her discard pile. 

The Sheriff didn't say anything. He just sat and drank his coffee, eyes soft and nonjudgmental. Snorting, Allison reached for the next envelope, which turned out to be new licensing documentation for Argent Arms. That went in the business pile. The next one was essentially the same file, but with a different letter head. She slapped it down too, hard enough that her tea splashed. 

All the while, the Sheriff just watched. Quietly. Not even really paying attention to her specifically. The space between her shoulder blades itched, like it did when someone had a gun trained on her. Pressing her lips together, she reached for another envelope. 

It was for UCLA. 

Snarling, Allison threw that one down into the discard pile with the rest. "It's not that I don't want to go to college!" The words bubbled up inside her, demanding to be let out. They weren't directed at the Sheriff. Not specifically. He just happened to be in their way. "It just seems so _stupid_. I'll just end up working for dad's business to pay the bills anyway. I don't need to go to college for that." 

"Business is a good degree," the Sheriff answered in a bland, noncommittal tone. He got up to refresh his coffee, and ended up leaning against the counter rather than back at the table. It was driving her crazy, the way he didn't look at her in a way that was more pointed than if he'd stared. "You could do that. Or general education, if you're not sure yet. You don't have to take over the family business." 

"But I _do_!" She shook a piece of paper at him. It wasn't, actually, anything to do with a college, but she needed something to shake, and it was either the paper or a person. "I have to work for my dad so I can be a hunter, because there's no way any actual job will let me do both—there's just too many complications. Most hunting families do the same thing. That's just the way it is." 

The set of the Sheriff's shoulders had tensed, but his expression didn't change. "Are you sure you want to be a hunter?"

"Yes!" Allison dropped her head between her shoulders and took a breath, aware that she was getting frantic, that her face was red and her heart was beating too fast. But it had been itching at her all year, an endless pressure of impossible choices with only one real end to any of it. "Yes," she said again, more quietly. "I want to protect people—to protect my _friends_. I want to make a difference."

There was no response right away. Then bare feet shuffled on tile, and the Sheriff patted her shoulder awkwardly. "I think you underestimate how much a difference you've already made." He didn't wait for her to answer, just patted her again and shuffled off, leaving her with her thoughts.

* * *

"Did you run into anything weird when you went out yesterday?"

Allison pulled her head out of her locker to look at Scott, eyebrows rising. He, Erica, Boyd and Isaac were arrayed in a rectangle of good looks and awkward expressions. Stiles was nowhere to be seen, but Allison didn't doubt he was around somewhere. He always was. 

"No, I didn't see anything weird." She pulled out her lunch and shut her locker, leaning back against it. Her heart was made of sharp edges as she stared at him. "I just went on a run. Everything seemed fine."

"You didn't see anyone?" Isaac glanced over at Scott, who didn't take his eyes off Allison long enough to look back.

Erica rolled her eyes and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jean skirt. "True Alpha over there said he smelled werewolf on your stuff," she explained. Her shoulder pressed into Boyd, wiggling under his arm until he gave in and draped it over her.

"Her car did smell weird," Boyd added, but it was too late. Allison's face was already turning red, her mouth dropping open in outrage.

"You _smelled my things_?" she demanded, a little too loudly. Other students in the hallway stopped to stare. At the far end of the hall, Lydia dropped her forehead against the lockers. Twice. Lowering her voice, Allison leaned in and hissed between gritted teeth, "You smelled my _car_? What is this, some alpha werewolf thing?"

Scott didn't flush bright red the way she did, but his cheeks pinked up. "It's not like that!" 

"Then what _is_ it like, Scott? We're supposed to be on a break, that doesn't mean you can just go sticking your nose into my business!" She stared hard at him, jaw starting to ache from how tight it was clenched. She could taste blood on the back of her tongue. The last time she'd been so angry, she'd shot someone. "I never thought you'd be the kind of guy who'd..." Her hands fisted around her lunch bag, shaking as she tried to find the words to say everything that needed saying. 

They didn't come. Taking a step back, Allison settled for the next best thing. "Just— just don't talk to me right now." Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

* * *

There were new flowers on the desk when she got home from her after-school jog that day. Pink roses, in a pretty crystal vase with baby's breath and a white lacy ribbon that fluttered in the breeze from the open window. 

Allison didn't even look at the tag. She just dropped her bag, threw herself face-down on the bed and tried not to scream. She loved Scott. She really, really loved Scott. That didn't mean she didn't sometimes want to kill him. It was a good reminder of _why_ they were taking a break, but it didn't _help_.

The door frame creaked. "I'll call Melissa," the Sheriff said quietly.

She raised one hand in thanks, then let it fall back to the bed.

* * *

Whether it was whatever the Sheriff said to Melissa, or what had happened in the school hallway, it worked. On Tuesday Scott and Stiles avoided her so hard that they even changed seats in some classes. According to Lydia, they ate lunch outside, even though the temperature was in the 50s and there was a nasty wind coming from the west. When she got to the Stilinski house after school, there were no additional flowers to be seen and the window was shut tight. 

Stiles ran in just after Allison and the Sheriff sat down to a dinner of leftover spaghetti, shouting that he was going to study at Scott's, maybe for a week, he'd let them know. The house echoed with a series of thuds, bangs and badly muffled curses. Then he ran back out again, bag thrown over his shoulder. He slammed the door behind him. 

Silence.

"Things'll be quieter now," the Sheriff said blandly. He took an oversized bite of spaghetti, cheek puffing out so it was obvious he wouldn't say more. 

Allison smiled down into her plate. "Yeah."

* * *

The first day of not having to look at Scott and hurt for missing him was amazing.

The second day was nice.

The third day was okay.

By the end of the fourth day, Scott's absence was starting to wear on her, making her antsy and snappish. It was for absolutely no reason, and she was self-aware enough to realize it. She'd wanted space, and now she was getting it. It shouldn't have felt like she'd misplaced something precious.

It should have been _glorious_. They were on a break, and seeing him so much _hurt_ , especially after what he'd pulled with smelling her stuff. But the tiny, achy part of her that had gotten used to looking for Scott's smile in a crowd refused to stop looking, and somehow looking and not finding him hurt more than looking and never finding anyone else. 

Friday passed without even a hint of Scott or Stiles in her vicinity. They sat behind her, avoided her at lunch, didn't bump into her in the hallway or sniff her too obviously or anything. Erica played messenger to tell her that Scott was still smelling something strange, and she should probably stay away from the woods, and that was all. 

As soon as Allison got back from her usual jog, she kicked off her running shoes and sped upstairs to the guest room. Once again, there were no new flowers. The pink roses were wilting, petals starting to droop. She refreshed their water in the upstairs bathroom before making a search of her room. Nothing had been disturbed. There wasn't a tree outside the window for easy access, and when she looked there weren't any claw marks on the side of the house. 

She left the window open and repeated her search, more carefully. The result was the same. Going by the evidence, Scott hadn't been anywhere near the Stilinski house all week. He was respecting her wishes. That was a good thing. Really it was. 

Letting out a shout of rage, Allison threw herself onto the bed with the loudest thump she could manage.

A minute later, the half-open door creaked. "Are you okay?" the Sheriff asked quietly.

"No," Allison mumbled into her pillow.

"Is Scott bothering you?"

"No!" 

There was a long pause. "Did you want him to bother you?"

The truth tasted bitter. Twisting, Allison buried her face harder in the pillow. "Maybe a little?" 

If he'd been her dad, he probably would have just left her to sulk. Her dad had experience with Scott-induced rampages, and was used to cutting out before the conversation turned. But instead of leaving, the door creaked again and the Sheriff said, "You know, I don't have a shift tonight, and there's a whole box set of Muppet movies that never got watched downstairs. And I think there's everything in the kitchen to make real cocoa. Even marshmallows."

Sniffling a bit and hoping her face wasn't too red, Allison looked up. "Marshmallows? Stiles won't like that." 

"What Stiles doesn't know won't hurt me." The Sheriff offered a tiny, hesitant smile. "You in?"

* * *

Somewhere in the middle of the Great Muppet Caper, Allison dozed off with her head on the Sheriff's shoulder. He didn't notice, since he was mostly asleep himself, the popcorn slowly edging toward spilling between them.

Allison was so firmly asleep that her first indication that something was wrong was the clawed hand wrapping around her neck. She snapped awake as it pulled her up and over the back of the couch. Her feet dangled uselessly above the floor, lungs spasming as her airway was blocked. She lashed out with her elbows and couldn't manage to hit anything. Kicks landed uselessly; she was too far away to really put her weight into it. 

" _Argent_." Its voice was a low, rough growl, the voice of someone who'd spent too long in the wild. Hot, fetid breath washed over her face, sour with rotten meat that seemed to coat her tongue as she tried to breathe. Clawed toes clicked on the hardwood floor, strangely loud over the pounding of her heart in her ears. "I knew I smelled your kind here." 

The Sheriff scrambled off the couch, hands up. He didn't have his gun on him—it went in the gun safe as soon as he got home, she knew. "Let her go." His voice was calm and stern, the one she mostly heard when he was being official. "The Argents don't hunt here. This doesn't have to end badly." Step by slow step, he edged back, retreating from the threat. 

It—the werewolf, it had to be a werewolf with those claws—laughed, and Allison turned her face before its breath could attack her again. "There's no other way for it to end when there are Argents."

The world started to fade at the edges of Allison's vision, and her lungs ached. As hard as she stretched, she couldn't touch the floor to get any leverage. Allison's head swam, and her vision blurred sideways. She blinked away the tears that came to her eyes, but it didn't help her see at all. How long had she been without air? A minute? She wasn't a deep diver, she couldn't hold it for very long. She dug her fingernails into the werewolf's arm, but it either didn't notice or didn't care.

That just meant she had to go for more than a _little_ pain. But she didn't have any options, and she was running out of time to improvise. 

Stiles' dad was still moving, a blur of brown and green at the fuzzy edge of her vision. "I'll give you one more chance. Put down the girl."

"Or what?" The werewolf lifted her higher and gave her a shake. Allison's head jarred, and everything started to darken. She kicked again, weaker, fighting to stay conscious. A hollow ringing started in her ears.

Suddenly, the werewolf darted to the side, a glint of something metal flashing in Allison's vision. She felt an impact, a sudden thud of meat as she was swung around. Something in the room crashed and splintered, and she felt herself be pulled in closer to the wolf. Her back thudded against its chest. 

A last-second surge of adrenalin rushed through her. She slammed her head backwards, feeling the jarring crunch of bone as she smashed its nose. It howled and dropped her to the floor in a sprawl. 

Training took over above instinct. Dizzy, vision still tunneled and mostly dark, Allison rolled to her feet pelted upstairs. She stumbled when she hit the steps, but kept felling forward as fast as she could. The wolf crashed after her, howling and snarling, humanity gone. She didn't dare pause to look back, but she felt the claws swipe at her legs, the shaking of the stairs as it came after her.

Somehow she managed to stay ahead, to get to her room where her duffel bag was at the foot of her bed. Allison threw herself at it and pulled out the first thing that came to hand—a machete. 

The werewolf was a dark blob in her unreliable vision, coming straight at her. She pulled back the blade and swung blindly. It hit something thick and meaty, cutting with a sick slide of metal through flesh and bone. The wolf's body slammed into her and then dropped to the floor, dragging her blade out of her hands.

She stumbled to her knees, taking deep, not at all calming breaths. One of her legs landed in a warm, slightly sticky spot on the carpet that she knew had to be blood, though when she tried to look down her field of vision just blurred into darkness that made her wobble. Closing her eyes, she patted around until she found it's—her—chest. Then she waited, counting the seconds until she was almost positive that there wasn't a heartbeat and the werewolf wasn't breathing.

It took a few minutes for Allison to be able to stand up and for her eyesight to stabilize enough for her to see what she'd done, which had been to nearly chop the wolf's head off. Her machete had made it most of the way through the neck, severing the spinal column and three fourths of the rest. The werewolf was already shifting back to human, dark eyes staring at the ceiling, graying blond hair spread out and clumping with blood.

Feeling sick, she pushed to her feet headed downstairs. Experience put that as a stupid move; she'd seen werewolves come back from a lot of death blows. Peter had practically made a lifestyle out of it before they'd finally put him out of their misery for good. But it would take even a werewolf a little time to heal something like that. 

Ray was pulling himself out of the mess of the coffee table with slow, careful motions, one hand clutching a detached table leg. A piece of wood a few inches long was stuck in his bicep, blood staining his green shirt an ugly brown down to his wrist. When she came into view, his good hand came up, clutching his makeshift cudgel. 

He didn't relax on seeing her. "Status?"

She felt strangely distant from herself as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the couch. It could have been the adrenalin, or the loss of oxygen, making her feel like she was three feet away from her body as it worked on automatic. 

"Probably dead. Hard to say." Allison's voice was nearly as rough as the werewolf's had been, harsh and low. There'd be bruises on her throat in a couple of hours, but she couldn't feel them. Nothing hurt at all actually, but that would come. "I need to make some calls." 

"Scott?"

_Just don't talk to me right now._

She winced. "Yeah. Him too."

* * *

Scott was too nice to say "I told you so" when she opened the door, or even to think it loudly enough for it to show on his face. In fact, all he said was, "Are you guys okay?" while looking at her with those big brown eyes that were impossible not to love. 

Stiles didn't bother with the niceties. He shoved right on past them both and limped into the house, shouting, "Dad?"

"He's in the—" Allison started to say, but Ray had already yelled back and Stiles was gone so quickly there should have been a cartoonish cloud of dust left in his wake. "Kitchen," she finished, sighing. Since Scott was still standing awkwardly on the stoop, she shuffled aside to let him in. "We're fine. Mostly bruised. The body's upstairs. Some of my dad's friends will be here in the morning to get rid of it, so you have plenty of time." 

Scott edged inside, hands shoved in his pockets, head down and shoulders hunched. "I won't stay long. I'll just get the scent and—"

"No!" Allison held up her hands, like she could physically bar him from finishing that sentence. "No, you don't have to. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed—I know you better than that."

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I did sneak into your room to leave flowers."

Allison bit her lip. "I might have overreacted to that." Taking a quick step forward, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek before he could get away. "I still need a break to figure out college and everything without relationship stuff making me not think straight. But I'm sorry I pushed you away completely."

Scott smiled, and just like always his dimples did something illegal to her heartstrings. She was pretty sure his smile would get to her even if she were blindfolded in a dark room, it just radiated out of him so much. "I get it. You've got all those offers to great schools. I don't want to get in the way of that." 

Her heart sank a little, thinking of all the envelopes she'd been studiously ignoring. She let go of Scott, before she could get too attached. "Thank you." 

If he sensed anything different in her mood, Scott didn't let it show. "Come on, let's go check on Stiles and Mr. Stilinski. Then you can show me the body."

Allison led the way to the kitchen, where she'd forced Stiles' dad to sit at the table with his shirt off. The Stilinski house was unsurprisingly well supplied with first aid supplies, and she'd made use of them. Ray's arm was bandaged where she'd pulled out the splinter, and she'd bound an ice pack against his opposite shoulder. A few other scrapes had been covered with superhero bandages, though they were mostly shallow.

Stiles hovered, peering at the bandages and ice packs judgmentally. "I can't believe you tried to attack a _werewolf_ with a screwdriver," he was saying, in a sort of run-on tone that suggested he'd been repeating himself in various was for more than a couple of minutes. "You're a cop, you have a gun. It was a _werewolf_ , why would you do that? I can’t believe—"

"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Ray asked, leaning on his elbows. "Except I think I was the one calling the kettle black the first _three times_."

"Hey, those were absolutely necessary instances of self-defense—" 

"Throwing yourself in front of Scott is not—"

"Stiles, can you help me with the body?" Scott interrupted, grabbing his friend's arm and starting to haul him away. "I know you have some mountain ash you stole from Deaton. Maybe we can make a ring just in case."

Of course, Stiles dug in his feet, forcing Scott to drag him even when Stiles tried to go limp. "But I wasn't done," Stiles whined, head falling back to glare balefully at Scott. "My dad needs me, dude." 

Scott just hooked his arms under Stiles' armpits and kept dragging, taking a kitchen rug along with them out through the kitchen door. "Allison will take care of him. I need you to get that ash for me."

Ray met her eyes and shrugged his good shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. Allison covered her mouth to muffle a giggle as she dropped down into one of the kitchen chairs. Out of sight, the boys continued their argument. 

"It's a dead body. There's at least a sixty percent chance it's not going anywhere," Stiles complained, loudly enough that it carried. A series of rhythmic thumps followed—Stiles' heels on the steps as Scott dragged him upstairs. "Hey— _hey_ , watch the door!" 

"At least he didn't find the marshmallows," Ray muttered, dropping his head. He looked suddenly exhausted, the lines of his face deep and set. "How do you kids do it?"

"I hide my granola behind the flour so my dad can't find it," Allison answered, even though that wasn't actually the question he'd asked, and she knew it. 

A hint of a smile played at the corner of Ray's mouth. It dropped away a second later. "I've been cop for twenty years," he said. "I was in the army before that. Never killed anyone in either uniform, so I don't know how it feels but if you want to talk..."

She ran her hand through her hair, fingers catching on a spray of drying blood. The entire front of her shirt was covered in it; arterial spray was nothing to joke about. "I'm okay. Dad and I—" When she couldn't work through the blood, Allison let her hand drop to the table. "It's not like this is the first person I've killed."

It was the first person she'd killed without having known them first, though. That felt strange, like it was too easy, too distant. Killing should be personal. There was no way she'd ever say that to a cop, though. Maybe a therapist day, if she ever found one that knew about the supernatural. What were the odds of that?

Ray reached over and patted her hand. "I wish I knew how to help you kids more." He shrugged, then grimaced when it pulled at his injured shoulder. "I wish I could keep you out of it completely—"

Sudden alarm made her sit up. "You can't!" Upstairs, the tiny noises that had been Scott and Stile moving around went quiet too. "This isn't something that just—you can't protect us—"

"Believe me, I know." The hand on hers squeezed, making her sputtered half-arguments go quiet. "When I found out, the first thing I did was have a long talk with Alan Deaton, Melissa and your dad. I was all set to quit my job and drag Stiles off to the east coast if I had to." 

Did he know Scott could hear him? And whatever Scott knew, Stiles would know a minute later. Allison centered herself, tried to keep her voice calm, though her heart was thundering in her chest. "You didn't, though." 

"It wouldn't do any good." Ray looked down at their hands, but she had a feeling that he wasn't actually seeing anything. "Stiles is part of Scott's pack. They said that I couldn't change that, even if we moved all the way to Russia and grew our own food so we didn't have to see anyone else. Trouble would still find him, and he wouldn't have anyone to protect him. So we stayed, and things like this keep happening." 

Allison bit her lip. Stiles never would have forgiven him, and as soon as he'd turned eighteen he would have been back in Beacon Hills looking for Scott. The Sheriff undoubtedly knew that, though. "I can teach you?" she offered tentatively. "A lot of it's book work. I can email you some files, show you what you need to know." 

Immediately he sat up, pulling his hand away. "I wouldn't want to be a bother—"

"It's no trouble," Allison swore, grabbing his hand back. It was big and rough against hers, and reminded her of her father's, from the way he used to hold her hand when she was little. He didn't do it much anymore, but it had always made her feel safe. "We really should have taught you off this stuff sooner. You're in a good position to hear about trouble before we do." 

He eyed her doubtfully, but slowly nodded. "I'd appreciate any help you can give me."

Leaning over, Allison put her head carefully on an uninjured part of his shoulder. "I promise no kidnapping."

" _Kidnapping_?"

He sounded so appalled that she couldn't keep from giggling, and had to turn her head to muffle it in his shoulder. "It's a long story."

* * *

For everyone's sake, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills was at the McCall house when Argent family friends came to get rid of the body. They were certain it was a body, by then, since rigor mortis had already come and gone, but Allison still left the circle of mountain ash in place until the last moment. Their van was disguised as an appliance delivery truck—they came in with an old refrigerator in a new box, stripped it out and had the werewolf loaded in under twenty minutes. 

After that, the only things left to do were to call Ray home and to figure out how to clean up the blood.

* * *

The blood didn't come up even with peroxide and a lot of scrubbing. Allison and the Stilinski men spent at the hardware store, and then that afternoon pulling up the ruined carpet to replace it. The new carpet was a painfully vivid rectangle of slightly brighter color. It wasn't obviously a murder scene, though, which was an improvement. 

Scott followed the werewolf's trail long enough to find where she'd been staying and to verify that she was an omega—there wouldn't be a pack coming after Allison for revenge. He also stopped acting like she might explode at him at any second. And Allison... felt less like exploding at him at any second, too. It wasn't perfect—it wouldn't be perfect maybe ever, but it worked. 

Allison's second week at the Stilinski's passed easily, much more so than the first week had. Stiles still slept over at the McCalls', but he made more forays back home where she could see, and even ate dinner there a few times. Apparently he'd run out of clothes on the second day and had been breaking in through his own bedroom window to resupply himself, which was how he'd ended up with the limp. 

She couldn't even pretend to be surprised. 

Still, she was grateful when her dad called and said that he'd be arriving home on Saturday afternoon. Ray gave her a hug after she'd loaded her things into her car. Allison pretended not to tear up as she drove back home.

* * *

Being home again was nice. The detergent smelled right, the airflow was right, and the shower worked the way she expected it to. Her dad gave her the gift he'd gotten—a little pewter and hand-carved wood jewelry box—and filled her in on the leads he'd picked up about the Nematon. It wasn't much, but it was more than nothing. They spent his first night back in the basement, looking over old books and mapping out the Nematon's effects on the local leylines. It was comfortable, easy. Like he'd never been gone.

And if Allison's car automatically turned toward the wrong house on her way home from her after-school jog for the next few days, no one needed to know. 

She still saw Ray around; Beacon Hills was too small not to. He showed up at school a few times, and once she saw him while she was getting gas. Their emails stayed mostly on hunter business. Scanned files and suggestions for books flew back and forth without much by the way of personal conversation. Not that she was even sure what she'd say. She couldn't exactly make father-daughter time dates with someone else's dad. 

Which was why it came as a surprise when her dad came into the kitchen on a Thursday morning and dropped an envelope in front of her cereal bowl. It was from the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department and thick enough that it needed two stamps. 

"You don't have a parking ticket or something that I should know about?" he asked, too casually. "Didn't go out partying or something while I was gone?"

"No, Dad. I was staying with the _Sheriff_. You would have heard about it." She rolled her eyes and reached for the envelope, cracking it open with a finger. Inside, most of the space was taken by several folded sheets of glossy paper. A single sheet of white paper completely failed to wrap around the stack neatly, turning the crease into more of a bend. 

It was mostly brochure clippings for criminal justice degrees, forensic sciences, lists of ways to apply a degree in law enforcement. Allison blinked as she flipped through, fanning out the collection. She topped it off with the only non-brochure item: the paper the brochures had been wrapped in. Nothing was written on it, but someone had circled the writing on the badge in the top right-hand corner of the letterhead. 

_To Serve and Protect._

Allison smiled. "Hey Dad, do you still have those college packets you sent for?"


End file.
